Such a waste to let him live
by Crazypreacher
Summary: A pre-game look at Grant and Asher. I'm... not quite sure how I feel about this thing, myself. But I do enjoy writing these two guys.


High above the ground, atop the Bracket towers was night, yet down below, in the city, it was light as day, as thousands of lights shone far beneath Grant Kendrell, who was waiting for his friend and accomplice. Sybil was running late. Not to blame her, of course. She had been knee-deep in work these past few months, organizing the opening ceremony of that one brand new performance hall. It was a good opportunity for them, too – all the crème de la crème were going to be there.

The administrator sighed. Waiting was making him anxious. This had been an especially long day – one of those days that made him abhor any sort of productive work - even that related to his cause. He would much rather be back at home, change into some less formal attire, lie back on the sofa and answer lazily to little Asher's attentive questions about how his day has been while the boy was scurrying around and making him coffee, then put his head into Asher's lap and have him brush his fine mane of silver hair gently, like in a damn romance novel.

Grant smiled slightly, playing with the ring on his finger. He didn't believe anyone ever coddled him as much as Asher did since the day he learned how to walk. He sensed some deep-seated issues with the boy – perhaps, something to do with his parents? Lonely childhood with no friends? The lack of intellectual equals among the peers and, as a result, the constant desire to reach his superiors, to impress and attract them? Yes… probably. He should do something really nice for Asher – the boy had certainly done enough.

Isn't it amazing how so much can change in such a short period of time? The first time he saw and heard Asher then Skarpsen, he would never believe it would come to this.

Grant suddenly frowned. _The change_…

* * *

The workday was nearing its long-awaited end, and Grant was eager to leave behind hordes of his moronic subordinates and petitioners and join his friends – the whole two of them. He had all reasons to look forward to this meeting especially, as their grand plans had recently finally begun to take definitive shape, which, however, somehow made them even more fantastic.

It was time to close the office for good and ride to Royce's place, Grant thought. He rose from his desk, switched off the computer and began to put away the papers, when suddenly his secretary spoke over the communicator:

"Mister Kendrell, you have a visitor".

"I'm sorry, but the day is over, Miss Dubois. If they wish to speak to me, they should make an appointment. Say, sometime next month".

"Mister Skarpsen does have an appointment with you on this exact day and hour, Mister Kendrell. As a matter of fact, I have informed you just this morning".

The name did sound familiar, come to think of it. Imagine, he was so caught up in his fantasies, he forgot about his tasks at hand…

"Skarpsen. Is he with OVC?"

"Yes, Mister Kendrell".

"Very well. Let him in".

The door opened, and Mister Skarpsen strolled in, filling the office with the smell of his perfume. He looked hilariously out of place in this sterile and formal environment, resembling a photo from some fashion magazine.

"People say not to judge by appearance, but from my experience, beauty and intelligence rarely go hand in hand. Especially in men", Grant thought to himself. He shook Skarpsen's hand, saying:

"Do pardon me, Mister Skarpsen. A politician's life is not a vacation, despite what some may believe. Please, take a seat".

"No offence taken, sir", the journalist answered joyfully, hanging his beige trench coat on the back of the visitor's chair. "My name is Asher Skarpsen, I'm the culture-and-current-events editor for OVC".

"I see. So I take it, you're here to interview me about the results of the new poll? The one according to which, the majority wants us to make one of the university buildings into a jazz club and huddle the entire stuff and all the students in the remaining two?"

"Not really, no – we've already done this, the article should appear in a day or two. It's not my work that brought me here, it's entirely my own volition".

"Do tell me more. I'm fascinated to know what kind of person visits their administrator for fun".

"You're laughing now, Mister Kendrell, but I believe you'll change your mind once you hear what I need, for it is a passion we both share".

"It certainly isn't a passion for making broad assumptions about people entirely unfamiliar to me, if that's what you're implying".

"I'm investigating the history of Cloudbank, Mister Kendrell, and I have come to a dead end. I need your knowledge and experience to help me come unstuck".

"I… see. Sorry to inform you, Mister Skarpsen, but you've come to the wrong person. I'm entirely unqualified in the field of history. You should address Bailey Gilande – she is my consultant. One of the Cloudbank's finest historians. I'll set up an appointment for you".

"Oh, I have already spoken to Ms. Gilande. In fact, it was her who has sent me to you".

"She… has? She could have at least warned me".

"Well, she didn't send me to you specifically. She advised me to ask the senior citizens about the past, because, and I quote, "experience always beats the bookish knowledge". So I decided to go to you, seeing how you probably have shaped and reshaped this city more than anyone else, and, therefore, know her inside and out like an anatomist".

"Flattery will get you anywhere, Mr. Skarpsen. So… Are you a historian yourself and only write for the OVC to get by?" Grant still couldn't shake off his astonishment at the contrast between Asher's supermodel-like appearance and this bizarre request. "I'm only asking, of course, because, without knowing what you need the information for, working together would be rather difficult".

"I'm but an amateur, Mr. Kendrell, but I consider myself as avid a seeker of truth as the respected Ms. Gilande. Whatever the matter is, you needn't worry – I'm sure whatever you have to tell me is more than sufficient".

"I hate you already", Grant thought. He smiled at Asher and pulled out his notebook. "An interview it is, then. Let's see… I'm sorry, but I only have a room for you at the end of the next month. You see, workload and all".

"Of course, Mr. Kendrell. As you'll see, I'm a very patient man". Asher stood up and flashed his perfect smile at Grant.

"Of this I have no doubt. Good night, Mr. Skarpsen".

_And good riddance._

* * *

"Now", Grant raised his glass, "to the genius of Royce and the cunning of Sybil".

"And the willpower of Grant, who makes the best use of both", Sybil added, beaming at the men. Royce didn't say anything, just smiled bashfully.

They were seated in Royce's study, on the benefit of it being the largest room in the house. It looked uncharacteristically neat. Grant dreaded to think what it took Royce to clean it up. Good man.

"So", he addressed Sybil, "do we have a plan already? I remember, you told me you had a list of potential donors, didn't you?"

"Of course, I do!"

"What was that – Gilande (naturally), Platt, Chein, Tennegan, Yon-Dale – all the good ones, yes…"

"Don't forget Darzi, Olmarq and Shashberg, too!"

"God, what one could want with those, I wonder".

"Ah, you've always been the quickest to judge people at first glance, Grant", Sybil laughed gently. "Yet you turned out to be wrong about me, didn't you?" Royce laughed too, took a sip of wine and started coughing. "It's not impossible you'll turn out to be wrong again". She started patting the scientist on his back motherly.

"Ok, whatever. Let's call them our B-squad, if so you wish. Anyone else?"

"Well, there's one young gentleman… I've only met him last week, really, but he seems to be a quite interesting and promising individual. You two probably haven't heard of him yet. His name is Asher Skarpsen, he writes for OVC. Max Darzi introduced us, while I was discussing the upcoming fashion show with him".

Royce shrugged, affirming his ignorance of the man. Grant raised an eyebrow:

"He's buddies with Darzi? That explains everything – I've never met another pompous sod like him".

"You know him?" Sybil asked incredulously.

"I do. In fact, he only left my office a couple hours ago".

"Really? What did he want with you – funds for the OVC?"

"No. I'm not sure myself… He said that he was interested in the history of the city and needed me to tell him what I know. Or something".

"Ah, I should have known!" Sybil exclaimed.

"Sybil, I beg of you, stop talking in riddles." Royce told her. "It is quite, quite, uhm... counterproductive."

"It was his article on Bailey's new book that drew my interest to him", Sybil explained. She took out a holomag and put it between her friends. "Take a look".

Grant ran his eyes over the article. One passage in particular caught his attention:

_"…Unfortunately, for all the advancement we've made, our own roots - the making of Cloudbank - remain a mystery. No two historians can agree on when exactly the city was founded and what changes it has undergone before becoming the way we know it now. Some believe it used to be just a small village before the technology reached it, some say it used to be part of a bigger urban agglomeration before separating itself from it, and others yet harbor unorthodox conspiracy theories about it being a former top-secret military base. Bailey Gilande's new work, "Early Years of Cloudbank: The Truth behind the Fog", offers probably the most consistent theory so far that suggests once Cloudbank has been an artist colony. While her ideas have a lot of credibility, there are still some inconsistencies to be found…"_

"That's… interesting", Royce exclaimed. He was a quick reader and finished the article earlier than Grant. "He appears to have deep knowledge on the subject. For someone who is not a professional, this is quite an impressive amount of work. Yes... quite impressive."

"You see what I mean now?" Sybil said. "And what's even more interesting, he doesn't seem to have any personal interest that I've heard of, like finding out the truth about his relatives or whatever. He's in it purely for the thrill of a chase. That's exactly what we need, right, Grant?"

"Quite". Grant Kendrell looked at Skarpsen's author page. Mostly articles on fashion, music, theater, but among them a piece about some debate between the two History professors at the university and an interview with Pierre Menguellet, one of the lesser known historians of Cloudbank. He'd have to read those at home.

"Fine, Sybil, let's say you persuaded me. I'll ask you to keep an eye on him, just in case. In the meantime, I'll ask Bailey what she thought of him. She doesn't like people, so if she says he's alright, he's the real deal and not someone trying to dig up some dirt on me".

"Oh, Grant, you and your paranoid moods", Sybil wrinkled her nose.

"I believe we should listen to Grant, dear Sybil", Royce piped in,"even though I admit, he may be a little too pessimistic at times, yes. We can't be too careful, not now".

"Anyway, that's enough of Skarpsen for today. So, we've picked the people. Now what? How do we, y'know, persuade them?" Grant wondered.

"I'll surprise you, Grant, it's the least of our troubles", Sibyl smiled smugly. "Look…"

* * *

The first meeting with Skarpsen proved to be a rather pleasant surprise. The young journalist was listening carefully, nodding, taking notes and waiting for Grant to pause before asking the next question, which was a significant contrast to his behavior a month and a half ago. The administrator was actually surprised at how much he remembered, as he was telling Skarpsen of his student days, his career, people he had known, changes he had implemented, Administrators that came and went during his lifetime. Once or twice he found himself looking quite fondly at the young man as the latter was writing in his notebook. "He's so much prettier when he's silent", Grant thought.

After approximately an hour and a half of conversation Skarpsen addressed the problem that obviously worried him more than anything else:

"Mr. Kendrell, you have fallen in, however briefly, with the very first Administrator, the venerable Ms. Yamaguchi Takuma. What could you possibly tell about her?"

"Not much more than you, I'm afraid. She retired about a month after I got my first position as a wee underling clerk. I learned about her mostly secondhand, but what I observed didn't contradict it. She was extremely reclusive and communicated with the world mostly through terminals. In fact, I believe there's only one photo of her. Not many people were privileged enough to see her in person, and I wasn't one of them. I know that she was the one who invented and set up this entire voting system, and she would appear to believe in it wholeheartedly – I remember her last message before retirement: "I'm happy to see that, after setting my city's wheels in motion, I can safely leave her in the hands of wise and sensible citizens". Grant shrugged.

"I've interviewed one of the former high-ranking members of the government – Mrs. Natalya Pokrovskaya", Skarpsen said, "and, according to her, Ms. Yamaguchi once offhandedly mentioned having a sister. Do you know something about her?"

"Nothing. I've never even known that she had a sister – or any family at all. If the sister was anything like herself, she probably never left her house".

"Do you know anything about Ms. Yamaguchi's life after her retirement?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. Her messages never mentioned anything about her plans for the future, and the "inner circle" appeared rather confused, as well".

"Nor about the city prior to her service?"

"No. I don't believe there was anything much prior to her service. Probably some small settlement of immigrants from all over the world. As the world grew better, it also grew better, and now we're here. Ms. Gilande's theory is fascinating and logical, but, I believe, a little too complicated".

"I guess you're right", Skarpsen sighed. "I still find the vagueness and the contradictions in the archives a little disconcerting".

"Maybe, you have your own theory, Mr. Skarpsen?" Grant smiled.

"Well, if this was any other city, I'd probably decided that once here was something terrible – say, a penal colony, a place of some terrible discord, or worse… And the contradictions were due to historians rewriting the past to conceal the truth". The journalist waved his hand dismissively. "But this is nonsense, of course. People of Cloudbank know no artifice. With the rare exception, I believe most of them never really grow up. It's like they think the city is their playground, not a real community".

Skarpsen stared at the administrator, as if waiting for his reaction. These words took Grant by surprise, so similar were they to his own thoughts. Instead of answering, he smiled and said:

"You're quite the revolutionary, Mr. Skarpsen. I've read your thoughts on the university case – you were all indignant about the results of the poll and seemed to doubt the adequacy of such system. Is this really your thoughts?"

"Not quite", Skarpsen smiled. "I was probably exaggerating a little – sometimes it helps to act a little outrageously to attract attention to a problem".

Grant contemplated him, tilting his head slightly.

"Perhaps, you're right", he answered softly. "But we're digressing. What else do you wish to ask me, Mr. Skarpsen?"

* * *

Sybil had asked Grant to come and pick her up from Darzi's after-party. When he arrived at the place, the banquet hall was already mostly empty. A member of the staff told Grant that Sybil was last seen going to the bar, so he went there.

Even as he was approaching, he was able to hear Darzi's shaky, high-pitched voice. He was talking to some woman who, however, wasn't Sybil. Suddenly Grant heard something that made him stop and listen carefully.

"Max, you better lay off on alcohol this night", the woman was saying. "It's not good for your health".

"Whatever. Life is a crock of shit".

"Hey, what's wrong? The show went great… Is it something to do with that guy, what's-his-face…? The tall, blond one, works for the news…"

"Asher?! Yes… That asshole… Wait, how do you know?"

"Women's intuition. So… what about him? I thought you were taking him out?"

"Well, so did I".

"And…?"

"He turned me down".

"Really?! Why?"

"I don't fucking know what his problem is. He said I was too young for him".

The woman had barely suppressed a chuckle, it seemed. "Well, that's a mighty blow. I'd be dead from embarrassment, if I were you… Wait, I thought I told you to stop! That's it, I'm taking you to Lillian right now, she'll fix you".

It seemed they were leaving the bar now, so Grant stepped forward. The woman, who turned out to be Darzi's favorite model, Adanna Okonkwo, gasped when she saw him:

"Oh, I didn't expect to see you there… Good evening, Mr. Kendrell. I'm sorry, but Mr. Darzi isn't feeling well right now". She looked eloquently at her friend, who had to lean on her to stand straight.

"A pleasure to see you, Miss Okonkwo. It's quite alright. I hope, Mr. Darzi will recover soon. I was looking for Ms. Reisz, have you seen her?"

"Oh, yes, she was here just this moment. Lillian went out to have a smoke, and she went with her. I'll call her right now".

"Thanks".

Grant sat at the bar. "Well, this is a funny piece of information", he thought to himself. He suddenly had quite a mischievous idea that could result either in a disaster or a crazy success.

* * *

Once Grant invited Skarpsen for an interview in his own house. After a couple of hours Grant suggested to take a break and to have some coffee. Skarpsen seemed to be surprised, but agreed.

After quickly making the table, pouring coffee and sitting down, Grant asked offhandedly:

"By the way, is that the Darzi label on your scarf?"

"Yes, sir. Why, do you want to purchase from him?"

"Not really. I'm asking because I've noticed that you've done quite a number of articles on Darzi, and I thought you two were friends".

"Oh, no", Skarpsen laughed. "It was more of a barter relationship, if you will: I provided articles, he provided clothes".

"I see", Grant smiled at him. "I thought this, too, you know. You and Darzi appear just too different. Not to sound offensive, but research and intellectual endeavors don't seem his arena".

Skarpsen smiled awkwardly: "I don't really think so, Mr. Kendrell. Just because he doesn't show interest in studying or learning, doesn't mean that he's not intellectual. It's just that his talent lies in other areas. He is able to do quite well for himself, after all".

"Oh, I didn't mean to say that he was dense, not at all. It's just that there is no use for a man like you to befriend someone who doesn't share your interests, when there are so many people who are more on your level".

"Well, if there are any, I have yet to find them", the young man gave a bitter and nervous laugh. Grant raised an eyebrow. "I don't really have any friends, Mr. Kendrell. Don't think I ever had any, either. Me and other people… we just never clicked. It's just me and my cat. I find her much better – she doesn't interrupt you when you're talking, doesn't pry and is satisfied with what little I give her. You don't get this with most people".

"You're too harsh on yourself", Grant said softly. "You shouldn't give up – surely, there is someone for you out there. I'd advise you to step out of your world of writings and archives and take a better look around. If nothing, you'll have a break from months of communicating with the elderly, which must be a hell for a young man like you".

"Oh, no – this is the least of my problems, Mr. Kendrell. I find the older people far more tolerable than the youth. People I've seen so far each have something to tell, and I find them to be more interesting than my peers. Not to mention, they are simply more peaceful by nature – and I like that".

"But when one is older, they have less time left and the less to look forward. You would sacrifice your youth, energy and intelligence for nothing, if you were to dedicate yourself to people older than you".

"That…" Skarpsen stumbled for a moment, before coming to his usual self, nonchalant and joyful. "I'm really flattered to know that you, of all people, hold me in such regard. Especially given that during our first meeting, you seemed rather cross".

"Oh God, dear Mr. Skarpsen, that had nothing to do with you", now it was Grant's turn to laugh. "I was simply too exhausted. Forgive me, I never meant to hurt your feelings".

"That's fine, no apology needed". Skarpsen said, and then looked down at the floor, fidgeting at his scarf. "Thank you very much, Mr. Kendrell. When a person like you praises me, I know I'm worth something".

Grant thought for a moment before proceeding to open his offensive. He put down his cup and said: "Look, Mr. Skarpsen… Our sessions will soon come to an end, but I really hate to say goodbye to you. You are a breath of fresh air among the crowd that surrounds me. I think I will have told you all I know, but you would still have a lot of things to tell me. I think you could spare an hour or two every week for a simple chat, like now?"

"I… but of course, Mr. Kendrell. It's such an honor to me".

"Alright, then. You see, Mr. Skarpsen, one doesn't have to be alone all the time".

* * *

"What happened?" Grant asked with concern, as he moved a chair towards Skarpsen. The latter looked disheveled and downcast, and his eyes were red. "I haven't seen you for weeks, and now you turn up so agitated".

"It's a long story. I…" The journalist drew his hand across his face. "Please, let me tell you from the beginning".

"I'm all ears, my dear Skarpsen".

"About two weeks ago, I went to Mrs. Pokrovskaya again. On the first floor of her house, I was passing by one of the flats, when suddenly I distinctly heard a woman's voice say: "Oh, dear Kimiko, if only you were here to make it rain. It's so hot today, even the conditioners don't help". This was surprising, and I froze in place. Then the woman suddenly started weeping, all the while repeating this name – Kimiko. She probably needed help, and I wanted to ask her if everything was alright, but there was no doorbell or videophone. I knocked multiple times, but she didn't open. When I got to Pokrovskaya's, I asked her about the flat, but she didn't know anything about it or about who lived there. She never heard about a meteorologist named Kimiko, either.

I took to searching through archives and OVC database, but the search yielded no results. As far as the documents and media were concerned, there has never been anyone named Kimiko in Cloudbank.

I was turning this inside my head all the time, thinking about all the people of Japanese descent, all the officials working in the weather department, all the missing people and people whose identities weren't established that I've ever heard of. Then a couple of days ago you called me and asked about my research, remember?" Grant nodded. "This call from you led me to remember our past conversations, and suddenly everything fell into place".

The next day, as soon as I could, I rushed back to that flat. I knocked on the door – again there was no answer. I called out. No answer. I said: "Please, Miss, I need to talk about your sister. About Kimiko. About Yamaguchi Takuma".

It was silent for a couple of moments, and then I heard her cry again. She told me to go away, but I persisted. I said: "If you don't let me in, I'll stay here forever. Please, I mean you no harm. I'm just like you. I was always hiding behind the door, I was always afraid of people, just like you. Please, I just want to help".

There was a pause, and then the door opened, seemingly on its own. I stepped in. The flat where Takuma's sister lived was very small. Most of the walls were covered with the drawings made with pencils or ink or paint or crayons, which depicted all sorts of fantastical beasts, landscapes and buildings. Wherever I looked, there were piles of paper books or stuffed toys. The flat was rather cluttered. With difficulty, I moved towards the woman's room.

Despite her grand age, her resemblance to Takuma was striking. She appeared weakened, but still completely lucid. As I came in, she looked at me and wept again. I spoke softly to her to calm her down and made tea for us both. And then…"

Skarpsen broke off and rubbed his face with his fingers. "I feel like a traitor for doing this, but… well, here I go. You are welcome to judge me". With his hands shaking, he took out his dictaphone and pressed the button. The small, quivering voice of an elderly woman began to tell a story:

"Back at home, we were two sisters – Kimiko and I. We were twins. Kimiko was wonderful. She was beautiful and clever. Everyone loved her, and she had a lot of friends. She loved to do sports, to go out, to have fun. She had a lot of friends and boyfriends. But more than anyone, she loved me.

I, on the other hand, was lonely and had no one but my sister. I was afraid of people. Because of that, I didn't have friends or boyfriends and wasn't great at school.

The more we grew, the better Kimiko's life was and the worse I felt. She was at college, winning scholarships, studying computer science, falling in love, and I spent all the time inside my room, dreaming away. Kimiko tried to spent time with me, but her life kept carrying her away. She felt torn between me and the rest of the world. She hated to see me like this and one day, she said: "Ayumu, I know what I'll do. I'll make us a world of our own, where no one would get to us".

She was afraid that, if she builds the entire world from scratch, something will malfunction, and so at first she made us a bunch of friends and a sword to control them. Then she had them build us the city. We felt so happy here alone, but one day other people started to come in, too. We never called for anyone, it's just that one moment they simply were here. When they appeared, they were sad and angry, but they quickly became happy and calm, once in the city. I think they wanted a shelter, too, like me.

Once there were too many people, it was clear we needed order. Kimiko felt responsible for them and for the city. It was because of her they were here, after all, since she made the other's dreams of another, perfect world a reality. She assumed a new name and became the Administrator. But she felt unfit for the role. Once the city was running smoothly, as she thought, she stepped down and returned to me. She always was there for me. But she was unhappy with the solitude that was my, and therefore, her life. She died very soon after stepping down. She died of grief. The life, which her love for me forced on her, was not for Kimiko. It is my fault that she died".

The woman started weeping yet again, and the recording ended.

"I calmed her down, and then she said that this was the story". Asher's voice was hoarse. "I thanked her and told her how much it meant for us all and promised to return very soon. She was only nodding rarely. Then I turned my back and went to the door. The very last moment I remembered that I didn't say goodbye and returned, but she didn't hear me. She was already dead".

A short silence fell in the room.

"My dear Asher", Grant said gently. "Do you even understand how much you have done?"

The other man groaned. "I don't even know anymore. It all seems like she was raving… but she did know Takuma, she was her sister… I don't know what to think".

"Oh no, my dear friend. No, she wasn't raving at all". Grant answered slowly. "I can prove it to you".

"You can? How?"

Ignoring Asher's question, Grant stared at the dictaphone, deep in thought. "You said", he murmured, "this city was a playground. I bet you had no idea how right you were then. It never had a chance to be anything but. It was created as a playground for two women-children". He raised his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yes… No. Why do you say such things? Takuma never had a chance to live the life for herself. First, she lived for her sister. Then, she lived for us. She sacrificed her entire existence for the others. Can you imagine it? She did the best she could do".

"Of course, she did", Grant smiled warmly. "And now it is up to us to make sure her sacrifice wasn't in vain".

"Us. Who are us?"

"You, me and some of my friends".

"You… consider me your friend?..."

"Yes, and I'm proud to know a person like you".

Asher looked on verge of tears. The entire experience was weighting on him. Grant put his hand on the young man's shoulder. Asher looked taken by surprise, but didn't budge.

"Calm your nerves. I'll get you something in a minute. I can't explain everything right now, Asher, but I make a promise to prove you that Ayumu was telling the truth. Do you believe me?"

Asher nodded slowly.

"Thank you", said Grant.

* * *

"What are those things?" Asher asked quietly, looking in terror at the crowd of tricolored automatons, perfectly smooth and slick almost to the point of being disgusting. The things were circling the two men like a pack of hunting dogs circles its game.

"Don't worry", Grant reassured him. "As long as I wield the sword, we are safe".

"The sword. I see. So, these are Takuma's friends, right? Her creations?"

"Most likely. And now, they are our friends, too".

"What are they good for?"

"Like you said, the city is a playground. But it doesn't have to be this way. Our friends will help us to make it into a real community". Grant looked at the sword in his hand. "But, unfortunately, we won't be able to get by with our friends alone."

"Let me guess. We're going to summon a couple of ancient demons from the depths of Inferno, too?" The presence of Asher's new acquaintances was still making him nervous.

"No. Better. You see, the sword is incomplete. There's a way to upgrade it. The best – the strongest, the smartest, the noblest - specimens of humankind carry a sort of "spark" within them, something that makes them unique, something that gives them their value. If you're metaphysically inclined, you could call it their soul, I guess. By bringing the sword in contact with themselves, it is possible to imbue the weapon with their spark, making it infinitely more versatile and efficient."

"By bringing the sword in contact with themselves," Asher echoed, almost whispering.

"Yes," Grant lowered his voice, too.

"I see." Asher looked down. Grant was unable to catch his eye. "So… this is what it was about, then? All the words, all the smiles from you, all the affectionate gestures? You were luring me here all the way, to… to kill me?" Grant wanted to say something, but Asher wasn't done yet. "If so, go ahead. I'd rather suffer deception and death at your hands than at anybody else's."

Upon hearing this words Grant felt like something clicked within him, as if Asher pressed a switch that started a one-way process.

Grant approached him and put his free arm around his shoulders. And then, finally, Asher Skarpsen broke down crying.

Grant didn't say a word, he was just hugging the other man close to himself and stroking his golden hair, being thankful that the Process don't understand anything so complicated as what was going on here and now.

It wasn't clear how much time had passed before Asher came to his senses. When his sobs grew silent and he stirred out of Grant's embrace, the administrator softly said:

"They won't really die, Asher. Their entire personality and consciousness would still be left intact. Think of it as of another plane of existence".

"That makes it better… how exactly?"

"I see your point, but I'm sure you see mine, as well. Once we imbue this city with the best qualities of her citizens, the out-turn we will get will be much greater, both from the people brought up here and for the people that she would attract."

"This city is already imbued with Takuma's sacrifice and her sister's suffering", Asher whispered bitterly, shaking his head. "Look where it got us - and them."

"Ah, but the actions of our late Administrator, as wise as she was, weren't dictated by reason. She was acting purely out of emotion – and, of course, it could only result in the chaotic nature of her creation. My friends and I, on the other hand, act according to our knowledge and our rational understanding of cause and effect, of the means and the end. You told me you considered me competent, Asher. Do you still think so?"

Asher stood for a moment, still too overwhelmed to speak, then nodded: "Of course."

"Would you join us in this agenda, then? Me and my friends?"

"But… but what would you need me for?"

"Gathering information, for one thing. Presenting it to the public in a way deemed necessary by the circumstances, for the other. The story with Ayumu – may she rest in peace – and your entire career have proven you perfectly capable of both."

Asher was still looking down, when he said:

"The fact that I didn't say no at once tells me that I agree."

Grant took a deep breath and embraced him tightly, his touch saying more than a thousand words.

* * *

Finally, Ms. Weisz deigned to show up. Grant turned to look at her. It was obvious that the day hadn't been easy for her, either. Whenever you looked at her, you saw a spotless, immaculate beauty, a veritable sprite of light and air prancing gently from one spot to the other. Everyone admired her grace and the ease, with which she carried herself. No one thought how much work it cost her to keep it up.

It was only away from the eyes of the crowd that Sybil could relax and afford to look the way she did for once. Somewhere along her way to the towers she removed her makeup, took off her hat and took out the pins from her hair and changed into a plain grey dress and flat heel shoes. She looked cross, worn-out and much older than her 30 years.

She approached Grant and asked him abruptly:

"Is it true what they say? I've spoken to a friend of a friend from a registry office and she confirmed that you and Asher have got married. Is it true?"

"Good night to you too, dear Sybil."

"I told Royce, and he was all big-eyed and said that he had no idea and that you're threatening the entire plan by letting a journalist inside your house on a permanent basis…"

"I'm really happy to see you too, Sybil, it's been so long…"

"…and that you've shown us such disrespect by not telling us about such a big decision that he just doesn't know if he can trust you anymore, and, just in case you care about my opinion, I tend to agree…"

"…since we could meet in person and talk properly."

"…and I demand answers immediately!" Sybil squealed. "What do you have to say in your defense, Grant Kendrell?"

"I said, good night, Sybil."

Sybil took a deep breath and clenched her fists. "Good night, Grant. I'm sorry, I'm… Please, why didn't you just tell us?"

"Royce was immersed in his studies of the Process' evolution, and you were shuttling from one end of the city to the other. If I started discussing my marriage with you two, it would certainly throw a wrench in your work. Besides, we both were a little… caught up in the moment and wanted to settle the formalities as soon as it was possible. Asher didn't want a wedding and I wanted it even less, so…" Grant shrugged.

"You do understand that by marrying at all now and by marrying him, of all people, you've thrown an even bigger wrench into, well, everything, right? What, pray tell, are you going to do, if he finds out?"

"Oh, you needn't worry about that. He knows."

Sybil stood frozen with her mouth agape for a few moments.

"But… you… _Why?!..."_

"Sybil, please, stop screaming… and put down your umbrella. There, there, that's better. Please, listen to me carefully. I let him in on the secret, because he promised cooperation."

"Cooperation, right!" Sybil sobbed. "It's a miracle the three of us are still alive and free! I bet he's trying to milk yourself dry before handing you over to Jallaford."

"No, Sybil. It's not like that, I promise. If you just let me tell you, you'll know what he's like".

"If he's so wonderful, why didn't you take him to meet me? Does he not care what the other two of his "cooperators" think of him?"

"He's not here because he's working at home. Namely, writing drafts for his new series of articles."

"How to Win Randy Old Men and Influence Them to Let You In On a Dangerous Secret"?"

"Not exactly. Articles about prominent people of Cloudbank suddenly deciding to take a leave, change their lifestyle radically, getting urgent health problems, go on a search of themselves, etc., etc."

Sybil remained silent for a moment, than an understanding smile slowly crept up her face, and she laughed. "Oh Grant, you sly old fox, you. So, is this your new manner of recruiting people? Making them fall in love with you and playing them like a flute? I wouldn't say it's particularly effective, but, well, it's me. The boy is clearly different. Thank goodness, and here I was thinking that we lost you. We didn't lose you, right, Grant?"

"What you've said is truth," Grant smiled. "But it's not the entire truth."

Sybil stared, then said softly and almost plaintively: "Grant, oh, Grant. You've changed so much, I've never seen you like this. Love is such a weakness… Grant, I'm afraid you'll lose your head."

"Did I ever let you or Royce down, Sybil?"

"It's never too late to start. Promise me."

"I promise you, Sybil, that I will never let anything stand between us and our purpose."

"Thank you." She wiped her tears with a dainty handkerchief. "Now, go ahead. Tell me what you wanted. About how amazing this guy is and such."


End file.
